


Valentine's Day Is Kind Of A Scam But I Do Love Getting Presents

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Being A Bitch About One Transphobe's Terrible Books, But Aziraphale Is Judging You, Don't Feel Bad Though He's Judging Everyone, Fluff, M/M, Sorry If You Own One Of Those Tote Bags, Valentine's Day, fluff as far as the eye can see, gift-giving, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: Buying gifts for your partner is never easy, but it's harder still when they could literally miracle themselves anything they want out of the ether. Aziraphale and Crowley get around this by intentionally getting each other... nothing they could possibly want.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 172
Collections: The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	Valentine's Day Is Kind Of A Scam But I Do Love Getting Presents

**Author's Note:**

> ok heads up first of all i fully have not even really read this through, i wrote it in a haze of silliness while shovelling vegetarian chicken nuggets into my face like they could fill the void inside me. and they did! turns out it wasn't a void at all it was just my tummy.
> 
> anyway what im saying is, if there's lots of typos in this, im sorry. if there aren't, i did it on purpose bc im good and cool.

The problem was that there was little in the universe Aziraphale or Crowley couldn't get for themselves as easy as breathing. If Crowley had a yen for a new watch, or Aziraphale spotted a particular antique he liked the look of, they could either miracle up a simulacrum of their own, or tug a few dots and decimals in their favour and buy it outright.

Besides which, getting each other things they actually _liked_ wasn't nearly as much fun.

It was Aziraphale who started the tradition, knowing his demon well enough to know that any slight might be forgiven if Crowley found it funny enough. And so, that Christmas, he'd proudly presented Crowley with a plastic pot plant, wrapping paper carefully taped to every individual leaf, and a baseball cap and t-shirt emblazoned with the faces of Queen, both in a matching shade of purple that clashed horribly with Crowley's hair.[1]

Crowley had retaliated accordingly at the next gift-giving opportunity, presenting Aziraphale with a wine-bottle holder in the shape of a glittery pink stiletto.

With that, a tradition was born. Whenever the date on the calendar called for some kind of ritualised exchange of gifts, they went out of their way to buy the most horribly misguided, inappropriate, insulting presents they could find.

It was natural enough that they would keep to tradition when they started celebrating Valentine's Day together. Apart from anything else, it took the edge off their nerves. It wouldn't do to look keen in front of the person who you'd been head over heels in thoroughly mutual love with for the last 6,000 years, after all.

So it was with a slightly wicked grin that Aziraphale handed Crowley his first Valentine's Day present, wrapped in paper covered in pictures of teddy bears declaring, "I Wuv U!!!!" They were sitting behind the till in the bookshop, Ella Fitzgerald playing softly in the background, a bottle of red on the table between them.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the wrapping paper, shaking the gift gently next to his ear. It was slightly squashy, though not precisely soft as he felt it through the paper, and about the size of a cushion.

"Is it... a new bike?"

"Oh no. How did you guess."

"Sorry, angel," Crowley grinned. "Didn't mean to ruin the surprise."

He tore into the paper, letting out something between a groan and a laugh. Knocking the paper aside, he held up the pair of boot-cut, red leather trousers, complete with fringing on the outside of each leg.

"These are... absolutely hideous."

"Nonsense!" said Aziraphale, laughing. "I'm sure you'll look lovely in them."

"Alas, you will never know. Awful. Well done." He set the trousers aside and handed Aziraphale a gift bag. "Yours are in here, you can open them in any order."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, not taking the bag. "Why are they in a bag if they're already wrapped?" he said, suspiciously.

Crowley gave a non-committal shrug, slurping a mouthful of wine. As soon as he reached into the bag, Aziraphale understood. The presents inside were all wrapped in the most improbably glittery paper he'd ever seen, immediately covering everything that came into contact with them. He pulled out a hand, the palm already smeared with red glitter.

"Crowley!" he scolded, but there was too much laughter in it to have much venom. "Oh, I'm going to be cleaning this up for the rest of the year!"

Crowley scoffed. "Like you ever clean up. Come on, open something."

Still grumbling, Aziraphale lifted one of the parcels out as gingerly as he could, sending up cloud of glitter. Despite his caution, he was quite thoroughly covered in the stuff by the time he'd got the present free - so much so that it took him a moment to realise what he was looking at. It was a book, of course, but when he recognised the title he burst out laughing.

"Oh, very good. A first edition, I expect?"

"Course. Just for you," said Crowley, blowing him a kiss.

"Wonderful," said Aziraphale dryly. "A first edition of the sixth book in a massively popular, and completely terrible, series, making it neither valuable as a collector's piece nor as a personal item. And look! It's been dropped in the bath!"

"Did that for you specially," said Crowley with a wink. "Look at the dust jacket."

Aziraphale frowned, trying to work out the joke. It was the "adult" edition of the book, black and gold so grown-ups could read it in public and not feel ashamed of reading a children's book, despite the fact they clearly had children's tastes.[2] Then, he realised.

"Oh, you didn't..."

He flipped the front of the dust jacket off, revealing an entirely different edition inside. He shook his head, laughing.

"You've outdone yourself, darling," he said fondly. "Truly, a _terrible_ gift."

"Why thank you," Crowley said smugly. "Hope I haven't peaked too soon. There's two more in there."

"You first though. Happy Valentine's Day, my love."

He handed Crowley a small cylindrical parcel about the length of his hand. With an intrigued quirk of his eyebrow, Crowley pulled off the wrapping paper - and barked out a laugh as the logo on the deodorant bottle was revealed.

Lynx Africa, preferred fragrance of teenage boys and grown men whose mothers still bought their hygiene products. Crowley threw the can spinning into the air, catching it easily.

"Oh, fabulous," he laughed. "You know, I had a hand in their advertising? That one about the angel..."

"Yes, I remember," said Aziraphale, sipping his wine. Crowley's thumb strayed dangerously close to the spray trigger. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "If you spray that in here," he said, all cold, collected calm, "I'll make the Fall look like a Sunday stroll in the park."

Crowley's smile widened. "Oh?"

"And not," Aziraphale said firmly, "in the fun way."

"Boo, you're no fun," said Crowley, setting the offending can down and sitting back against the sofa cushions. "Your turn."

The second wave of glitter was somehow worse than the first. Crowley didn't even try to hide his delight as Aziraphale tried fruitlessly to brush the stuff off his knees, only to smear more of it from his hands onto his trousers.

"Crowley, you- Stop laughing!"

"No," laughed Crowley. "You look like a Christmas ornament."

"I'll bloody ornament you," Aziraphale muttered darkly.

He pulled off the wrapping paper before Crowley could make fun of him for that particular witty rejoinder, groaning when he saw the gift inside.

"I Like Big Books And I Cannot Lie," he read aloud, the capital letters tinkling into place, setting Crowley off into a fit of giggles. "And look, it's a handy tote bag! So stylish! So practical!" He slung it over his shoulder and struck a pose. "Now everyone will know I like books," he said, completely straight faced, "which as we know, is a full and complete personality in itself."

"You are such a bitch!" Crowley cackled. "You're such a complete bitch!"

"No, I mean it," said Aziraphale, committing to the bit. "Perhaps I should sell them in the shop. I could get t-shirts too. What's the name of the company who makes them? I'll order them in immediately."

"You," said Crowley, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, "are a vicious old hag."

"And...?" Aziraphale prompted, a smile tugging at his lips.

Crowley rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help smiling back. "And I love you very much. Is this my last one?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Three each, wasn't it? Here you are."

He handed Crowley a red envelope with "Anthony J. Crowley" written on the front.

"You missed the Esq.," Crowley pointed out.

Aziraphale grunted, concentrating on topping up their wine glasses. Crowley tore open the envelope, frowning as he tried to decipher the florid, curling writing on the front.

"Happy Valentine's, my belovèd... Crolwey?"

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Oh, is there a mistake?" he said mildly. "So sorry."

Crowley snorted, flipping the card open. It was blank inside, but a slip of paper fell out onto the floor. He fished it up between his fingers and held it up to read it. His smile slipped from his face. As it did, Aziraphale's own broadened.

"What's wrong?" he said, his grin belying the concern in his voice. "Don't you like it?"

Crowley set the slip of paper down on the table. "I'm not scared of heights," he said firmly.

"Of course not."

"I'm not!"

"I never said you were!"

Crowley glared at the offending piece of paper. "I'm not..." he muttered, though the confidence had gone out of him slightly.

"Oh, it's alright, dear," said Aziraphale in a tone Crowley hadn't heard since they were taking care of young Warlock. "You don't have to use the voucher if you don't want to. The nasty skydiving man can't hurt you."

Crowley eyed the offending gift voucher doubtfully, as if at any minute it might summon a spandex-clad skydiving instructor insistent on pushing Crowley out of a plane. Then looked at his angel - his awful, rotten, brilliant, bastard angel - and sighed.

"You are such a piece of work."

"Thank you. I learnt from the best. Now, my last?"

Crowley nodded his agreement. Glitter and grumbles ensued - to Crowley's delight, Aziraphale had managed to get glitter into his hair, giving him a sparkly red halo.

The final parcel was shape remarkably similarly to the second.

"If it's another bloody Potter..." said Aziraphale warningly.

"Oh, come on, angel. Credit me with a bit more imagination than that," said Crowley, making a mental note to get Aziraphale the full set of hard-backs next time around.

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed as he unwrapped what appeared, to all intents and purposes, to be a perfectly normal copy of Out of the Silent Planet. He turned it over in his hands.

"1940s, I'd say," he said, more to himself than Crowley. "Looks like war economy standards. Not in very good condition, but an early enough edition that it still has some value. Middlingly popular, for Lewis..."

He glanced at Crowley, frowning, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Crowley just smiled, giving away nothing. Curiousity piqued, Aziraphale opened the book - and stared.

"You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me," he said, barely audible over the peals of Crowley's laughter.

Before opening it, Aziraphale would have valued the book at around £350, £400. What he saw reduced the value to approximately ten quid.

Someone - some _idiot_ \- had taken it upon themselves to turn the book into some kind of hidden sculpture, carving its pages into the crude shape of a space rocket.

"It doesn't even look like a rocket!" Aziraphale cried. Crowley's only response was to laugh harder. "It looks like a- Crowley, that's a _penis_!"

At that, Crowley very nearly discorporated. He clutched his stomach, gasping for breath. "I know! God bless fucking Etsy!"

Aziraphale stared at the horrifying object in his hands, almost too angry to be amused. But only almost.

"Well, fair play," he said grudgingly. "I absolutely hate it. Well done."

Crowley kicked back on the sofa, grinning. "Do I win?"

Aziraphale sighed, setting down the offending item with a small shudder. "I think you take this round, yes."

Crowley crowed with triumph, knocking back the last of his wine and refilling both their glasses. "Alright then," he said, excitedly. "Round two!"

"Reverse order?"

"Sure, if you've got something special planned."

Aziraphale said nothing, simply smiling as Crowley picked up the repellent gift voucher between thumb and forefinger. This was, he had to admit, Aziraphale's favourite part of the night - the secret second round, when the conceit gave way to something altogether more significant.

Crowley held the voucher up, looking for all the world like he was holding someone else's dirty underwear. "What do I do?"

"Just give it a flick," said Aziraphale.

Cautiously, Crowley flicked the paper in its centre, triggering the magic Aziraphale had laid upon it earlier in the day. At once, the letters blurred and rearranged themselves. Where once there had been a photo of someone in a red bodysuit and helmet screaming into the camera, the paper now displayed a rather tasteful photograph of Aziraphale, artfully naked in a feather boa and a set of pearls.

Crowley laughed delightedly, reading the words. "A movie night?" he said, glancing at Aziraphale.

"Keep reading."

The smile on Crowley's face broadened. "A movie night, and I get to pick the movie, the snacks... and the after-movie entertainment," he said, beaming. "Are you sure?"

"Well don't pick something awful," said Aziraphale, pulling a face. "I'm not sure I love you a whole Mission Impossible's worth. But yes, pretty well. Whatever you like, my love. I won't even talk through it."

"Yes you will," said Crowley affectionately. "I don't mind. Thanks, darling. And the entertainment afterwards..."

"That," said Aziraphale with a glint in his eyes, "I'm happy to give you free reign over. Just have a think and let me know."

"I might have a few things in mind already," said Crowley, his smile turning sinful.

They held each other's gaze, enjoying the memories of the nights since Armageddon't - and more than a few days, too, and more than once, one becoming the other without a break in their activities. Then Crowley nodded at the Lewis abomination.

"Your go. Flip it over and open it that way."

Aziraphale did so, feeling the spark of Crowley's magic as he did. The book transformed as it opened with a shimmer like heat haze, becoming a box of extremely fine chocolates bearing a logo Aziraphale hadn't seen since the 19th century.

"Oh, Crowley," he said warmly. "My favourites!"

Crowley leant forwards, looking at the chocolates with a faint expression of concern. "I hope I remembered them right," he said. "Sorry if they don't taste-"

But Aziraphale had already picked out a coffee cream and popped it into his mouth with a delighted hum. "Perfect!" he declared, slightly muffled. "Oh, my dear, they taste just the same!"

Crowley's cheeks flushed. "Really?" he said, obviously delighted.

"Mm, perfect. They're perfect. _You're_ perfect. Come here," he demanded, depositing a slightly sticky, coffee-scented kiss on Crowley's cheek. He popped another chocolate into his mouth before offering the box over. "Was there no saving the book?" he asked as Crowley fished out a cherry liqueur.

"Sorry, darling. Lost cause. I gave the woman who made it terrible gas though, if that helps."

Aziraphale pulled a face that suggested it did, but he wasn't proud of the fact.

Chocolates sampled, it was Crowley's turn again. He took the can of Lynx in his hands and, under Aziraphale's instruction, twisted the cap.

There was a click, and the sides of the can were suddenly covered in hairline fractures, radiating from the top in a fractal, geometric pattern. Crowley twisted a little more, and a little more, and watched in quiet awe as the sides first swelled open, then twisted around themselves, and finally reformed into the shape of an elegant glass bottle of perfume.

"That," he said sincerely, "was beautiful work."

"Thank you," said Aziraphale, inclining his head.

Crowley lifted the bottle to his nose, and almost immediately rushed to spray the perfume on the insides of his wrists, rubbing them together and inhaling the scent hungrily.

"Oh, _fuck_ , oh God that's so good," he sighed.

It was a heady, intoxicating scent, earthy and delicious with floral notes that lent it a strange delicacy. Crowley knew, just _knew_ it would warm beautifully on his skin. He dabbed a little on his throat, his head spinning slightly at just how perfectly the smell suited him. He sniffed his wrists again, toes curling in pleasure.

"Fucking hell, angel..."

"Would you like a moment?" said Aziraphale, and Crowley could hear the smirk in his voice. But he could hear too the pride and the satisfaction, the sound of a man who knows he's done well.

"Yeah," Crowley admitted. "Yeah, I would, actually. This stuff is like... Fuck, it smells like _sex_."

Aziraphale laughed. "Alright, calm down. You've still got another to go."

Reluctantly, Crowley brought his wrists down from his face, though he allowed himself the indulgence of sitting with his mouth slightly open, the taste of the perfume sending bursts of pleasure through him like bubbles in champagne. He felt a little drunk, and said so.

"You are a little drunk," Aziraphale pointed out, nodding at the bottle of wine that ought to have finished some time ago but which somehow found itself perpetually full.

Crowley waved him away. "Do your bag," he said. "You just turn it inside out."

Aziraphale did so, folding the tote into itself to activate the spell. It tranformed into a fine leather satchel, beautifully aged, with pockets a-plenty just crying out to be filled with books and bits of paper and spare pens and emergency biscuits and whatever else Aziraphale took it into his head to take with him when he ventured into the world.[3]

His smile lit his face like a sunbeam. "It's perfect!" he exclaimed, thoroughly delighted. "It'll be wonderful for book fairs and the library and..."

Crowley scoffed. "Nerd. My turn!"

He reached for his horrible leather trousers and held them up, looking quizzically in Aziraphale's direction.

"What do I do?"

"Just give them a shake," said Aziraphale, leaning back in his chair, hugging his new satchel to his chest. Old leather was really the most wonderful smell in the world.

He watched as Crowley did as instructed, shaking the trousers as if to get the creases out of them. As he did, they transformed in a rippling wave, the magic Aziraphale had imbued into the fabric activated by the movement. In a roll of black, starting at Crowley's hands on the waistband and sliding down the legs, the trousers transformed from red leather to something black and slinky.

Soon, Crowley was holding a sultry black dress that dipped low enough at the back that he knew just by looking at it would make him the centre of attention. It screamed elegance, and sex, and money, and Crowley was delighted.

"Oh, _angel_ ," he said softly. "That's beautiful!"

"It's a two parter," said Aziraphale, making Crowley look up with such a look of perfect, boyish excitement that it was all Aziraphale could do to resist the urge to leap the table and snog him senseless. He settled instead for an indulgent smile as he explained. "I will be taking you out tonight for dinner. And the restaurant we're going to is black tie only."

Crowley's expression transformed, moving through puzzlement to understanding into pure, undisguised lust.

"Angel," he said, his voice low. "Angel, are you... You mean, you..."

"Me. In a tux. You, in that dress. Drinks, dinner, and perhaps... dancing."

"Dancing," Crowley repeated in an astonished whisper.

"Slow dancing," said Aziraphale, dropping his voice. "Cheek to cheek. My hands on your waist..."

Crowley made a noise like a faulty fax machine. Aziraphale didn't know the phrase 'blue screen of death', but if he had, he might have made a joke about it. Not that Crowley would have heard him.

After a minute or so, his brain rebooted. "Your turn," he said quietly.

"Are you sure?" said Aziraphale. "If you need-"

Crowley's face flushed pink. "You win, OK! You already won! Just... Just open your fucking present so I can kiss you!"

Aziraphale burst out laughing. "Oh, poor thing. I'd better put you out of your misery. It is like the other one, open from the back?" he said, reaching for the hideous Potter.

Crowley waved a hand. "Dust jacket. You just take the dust jacket off."

Obligingly, Aziraphale unwrapped the dust jacket, looking away for a second to set it down. When he looked back, the book had transformed.

It was hand-bound, he could see that at a glance. A fabric cover embroidered with a fine replica of the illustrations he knew lay inside. And across the front, picked out in gold thread: 'For a silly old bear...'

Tears sprang to Aziraphale's eyes. "Oh, Crowley..." he breathed, running his fingers over the embroidery, hardly daring to touch it.

"Yes, I know, I'm very sweet. Come here and make out with me."

Aziraphale laughed, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. He looked over at Crowley, his sweet, silly, sentimental demon who knew him like nobody else in the universe ever could. And then, he did as he was told.

They made their dinner reservations... But it was a close thing.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Much to Aziraphale's chagrin, Crowley actually managed to look halfway attractive in the get-up, once he'd rolled up the t-shirt sleeves and adopted an appropriately ironic attitude. In retrospect, however, Aziraphale was willing to admit that might not have been entirely due to the outfit.
> 
> 2 And not particularly discerning children, at that.
> 
> 3 Yes, Aziraphale could simply miracle himself anything he might require. Yes, he still very much enjoyed carrying a bag and discovering he had forgotten things. No, he would not be taking questions at this time.


End file.
